AS BEFITS A CITY SLICKER

One tradition that I cannot get behind is "Taco Tuesday". The alliterative quality is not sufficient reason, it does not justify the practice. Margerine Monday? Thermidor Thursday? French Fry Friday? Among pipesmokers, some of us celebrate "Cob Tuesday", and post pictures of ourselves smoking a corncob pipe once a week. Yes, no, not a fan.
And totally baffled about how that custom came about.

As with tacos, I go for a corncob pipe when I feel like it.

I'm still working on a tin of Haunted Bookshop that I opened over a decade ago. In regular briars it wallops me, but as a Burley forward blend it sings in a cob. Please imagine me at some point channelling for "Ole gramps in his bib overalls on the tractor doing the back forty down at the farm" with a battered corncob pipe sticking out of his grizzeled face, starting every conversation with the crowd of gawkers saying "back in mah day, son, we shot revenooers on sight. We knew they was revenooers coz they wore city clothes."

No, I am not exceptionally smoking a corcob right now. The pipe shown here is NOT what's sticking out of my grizzled face. I'll leave that for Jonathan in Israel, who seems to have an affection for Americana and downhome hillbillies. Though I'd advise him to smoke something good. If Haunted Bookshop is too intellectual for him, I would recommend Briggs Mixture.


Even though I am like a sophisticated city city slicker, I am fond of both of those products. The latter also performs very well in a briar, and I particularly enjoyed it after my treatment at Saint Mary's, when the old ticker needed a little medical help. Dozed sporadically after the drugs wore off, and watched the Nature Channel during the long hours of the night. Hyenas killing a gazelle? Dolorous moaning from the room next door. Lions later fighting hyenas for their dinner? Dolorous moaning from the room next door. Hyenas bring down a juvenile zebra? Dolorous moaning from the room next door. Lions again Bogarting the hyenas? Dolorous moaning from the room next door. Sweet everloving Jayzus!

[Saint Mary's: Over three years ago. According to the internet, it was so easy that usually it's just an in-and-out procedure. They put me under because they didn't want me twitching on the table and making rude comments.]

When a staff member came at six o'clock with coffee and a brief vital signs check, I asked what was going on. "Oh, that's a demented woman; she's upset over her surroundings.
Now, do you think you're able to leave under your own steam?"

Oh you bet your sweet bupkes I am!
Where's my damned shoes?


This comes to mind because last night I left the house for a stroll with a corncob, and the sounds from Polk Street, even when I was a block away, were precisely like that moaning from next door. I am reasonably sure that there weren't any hyenas down there.
I'm not absolutely 100% certain, you understand, but reasonably sure.

Maybe they only come out at night. Like the opportunistic lions.
They probably won't down a man smoking his pipe.
Just the fancy city slickers vaping.
Comme il faut.



Smoking pot and drunk besides.
Easy targets, lots of flesh.



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